Our tale opens on a gorgeous night of Midsummer, at an era so little remote that to name the precise year could have no interest for the reader, and in a region which seemed to combine all that is delightful in climate with whatever is luxuriant and splendid in vegetation. It was upon the bank of a small river, a tributary of the Oronoco, not very distant from the picturesque city of Barcelonetta, that a beautiful villa stood, the elegance of whose architecture and the lavish magnificence of whose decorations were alike evidence that neither taste nor wealth were wanting to its proprietor.

In this land, where Nature had been so prodigal of her gifts, the luxurious appointments of this princely abode seemed to partake of the character of a fairy palace; and the admixture of objects of high art, the treasures of Italian galleries and Spanish collections, with the more vivid realities of the scene, favored this illusion. The fortunate owner of this paradise was a certain Pedro Rica, who, for something like fourteen years, had been a resident of Columbia. A widower, with an only child, then an infant of scarce a year old, he had arrived in that country, seeking, as he said, by new scenes and new associations, to erase, so far as might be, the painful memory of his late bereavement.

While he gave it to be understood that he was a Spaniard by birth, some averred that he was a Mexican; others, that he was a Texan; and one or two alleged that he was an American of the States,—an assumption that the ease and fluency of his English went far to corroborate. Of whatever nation he came, certain it is that a mystery hung over both his native land and his history; and as he showed little disposition to enlighten the world on these subjects, as is usual in such cases, his neighbors took their revenge by inventing a hundred stories about him, each one only worse than the other. At one time it was said that his wealth was acquired by piracy; at another, that he absconded from a Texan city, with a large sum belonging to the government; forgery, breach of trust, were among the commonest allegations; and the most charitable only averred that he made his money in the slave-trade.

It is but fair to say that the sole foundation for these various rumors lay in the stern distance of his manner, and the cold, almost repulsive, austerity with which he declined all acquaintance with the neighborhood. These traits, added to the voluptuous splendor of a retinue and a style of living infinitely above all around, gradually estranged from him the few who attempted to form an intimacy, and left him to live—as it seemed he preferred—a life of solitary magnificence; an object of affected pity to many, but of real envy to all.

As his daughter grew up, he was accustomed to visit the sea-coast each summer for some weeks, and from these absences he now usually returned with one or two acquaintances, for the most part officers of the Columbian navy, with whom he had formed an intimacy at the seaside. Such acquaintanceship seemed to increase from year to year, till at last each autumn saw the “Villa de las Noches Entretenidas,” “of the pleasant nights” crowded with guests, whose wild orgies were in strange contrast to the former stillness and quietude within those walls.

A more motley and discordant assemblage it would be hard to conceive, consisting as they did of adventurers from every land of Europe,—the wild and reckless outcast of every clime and country, the beggared speculator, the ruined gambler, the duellist with blood upon his hand, the defaulter with shame upon his forehead; all that good morals reject, and the law pursues, mingled with others whose faults went no further than waste or improvidence, or the more venial sin that they came poor into the world, and were stamped “Adventurers” from the cradle.

A service that never exercised too nice a scrutiny into the habits of its followers, and whose buccaneer life had all the freedom of piracy, with the assumption of a recognized class, offered no mean attraction to the lover of enterprise; and certainly, if the standard of morals was low, that of daring, reckless adventure was the very opposite.

Amid this pleasant company we must now ask pardon for introducing our reader, with this saving assurance, that he shall not have long to commune with such companionship. It was, as we have said, a summer's night. A sky all glittering with stars spread its dark blue canopy over a scene where, amid the banana, the manioc, and the plantain, flowers of every bright hue were blooming, and fountains gushing; while, through an atmosphere tremulous with the song of the mocking-bird, fire-flies were glancing and glittering.

In the deep piazza before the villa was now assembled a numerous party of men disposed in every attitude of lounging, ease, and abandonment; they seemed, though perhaps after very different estimates, to be enjoying the delicious balm and freshness of the night air. They were of various ages; and although the greater number showed by their dress that they belonged to the naval service, other signs, not less distinctive, pronounced that they were drawn from classes of life as varied as they were numerous; while, here and there, a caballero might be seen attired in the picturesque costume of the Caraccas, his many colored scarf and plumed hat aiding, in no inconsiderable degree, the picturesque effect of a scene Salvator might have painted.

Not only beneath the piazza itself, but on the marble steps, and even beneath them again, on the close-shaven turf, the party lay, sated as it were with splendor, and recruiting strength for new dissipations. Some sat talking in low and whispering voices, as if unwilling, even by a sound, to break the stilly calm. Others, in perfect silence, seemed to drink in the soothing influence of that tranquil moment, or smoked the cigarettos in dreamy indolence; while at intervals, from the leafy groves, a merry laugh, or the tinkling of a guitar, would mingle with the bubbling murmur of the fountains, making the very stillness yet more still as they ceased. Behind the piazza, and opening by several large windows upon it, could be seen a splendid saloon, resplendent with wax-lights, and still displaying on the loaded table the remnants of a sumptuous repast, amid which vessels of gold and vases of flowers appeared. Here, yet lingered two or three guests,—spirits who set no store on an entertainment if it did not degenerate into debauch.

A broad alley, flanked by tall hedges of the prickly pear, led from the villa to a little mound, on which a chestnut-tree stood, the patriarch of the wood; a splendid tree it was, and worthy of a better destiny than it now fulfilled, as, lighted up by several lanterns suspended from the branches, it spread its shade over a large table where a party were playing at “Monte.”

Even without the suggestive aid of the large heaps of gold beside each player, and piled in the middle of the table, the grave and steadfast faces of some, the excited look of others, and the painful intensity of interest in all, showed that the play was high. Still, although such was the case, and while the players were men whose hot blood and reckless lives did but little dispose them to put the curb upon their tempers, not a word was spoken aloud; nor did a gesture or a look betray the terrible vacillations of hope and fear the changeful fortune of the game engendered. Standing near the table, but not mingling in the play, stood Don Pedro himself, his sallow and melancholy features fixed upon the game, with an expression that might mean sorrow or deep anxiety, it were difficult to say which.

Beside him, at a small table littered with papers and writing materials, sat his steward, or intendant, a German named Geizheimer, a beetle-browed, white-cheeked, thick-lipped fellow, whose aquiline features and guttural accents told that lending money at enormous interest was no uncongenial occupation. Such was his present, and indeed almost his only duty; for, while Don Pedro seldom or never played, gaming was the invariable occupation of the guests, whose means to support it were freely supplied by the steward; the borrowers either passing a simple note for repayment, or, when the sum was a heavy one, mortgaging their share in the next prize they should capture. Other contracts, it was rumored, were occasionally resorted to, but of such we shall speak anon.

At a short distance from the table, but sufficiently near to observe the game, stood one on whom nothing short of the passion of play could have prevented every eye being bent. But so it was; she stood alone and unmarked, while all the interest was concentrated upon the game. Dressed in a white tunic, or chemise, fastened round the waist by a gold girdle, stood MaritaÑa Rica, her large and lustrous black eyes eagerly turned to where two youths were standing intensely occupied by the play. Her neck, arms, and shoulders were bare, in Mexican fashion, and even the mantilla she wore over her head was less as a protection than as a necessary accompaniment of a costume which certainly is of the simplest kind. Except the chemise, she had no other garment, save a jupe of thin lama-wool, beautifully embroidered and studded with precious stones; this terminated below the middle of the leg, displaying an ankle and foot no Grecian statue ever surpassed in beauty.

If the deep brown of her skin almost conveyed the reproach—and such it is—of Indian blood, a passing glance at the delicate outline of her features, and, in particular, of her mouth, at once contradicted the suspicion. The lips were beautifully arched, and, although plump and rounded, had none of the fulness of the degraded race. These were now slightly parted, displaying teeth of surprising whiteness, and imparting in the whole expression a character of speaking animation. Although not yet sixteen, her figure had all the graceful development of womanhood, without having entirely lost a certain air of fawn-like elasticity, which, from time to time, her gestures of impatience displayed.

The two young men on whom her interest seemed fixed, were playing in partnership, and, in their highly wrought passion, never once looked up from the board. One, somewhat taller and older by a few years, appeared to exercise the guidance of their play; and it was easy to see, in the swollen and knotted veins of his forehead, in the clinched hands, and in the tremulous lip, the passionate nature of a confirmed gambler. The younger, whose dress of green velvet, slashed and braided in Mexican taste, and whose wide-leaved sombrero was decorated with a long sash of light blue silk, whose deep gold fringe hung upon his shoulder, was evidently one less enamoured of play, and more than once busied himself in arranging the details of his costume, of which he seemed somewhat vain. It was in one of these moments that his eyes met those of MaritaÑa fixed steadfastly upon him, and, fascinated by her unmoved stare, he felt his cheek grow hot, and, whether from a sense of shame or a still more tender motive, the blush spread over his face and forehead. MaritaÑa looked steadily, almost sternly, at him, and then, with a slight toss of her head, so slight that none save he who had watched her intently could read its scornful import, she turned away. The youth did not wait a moment, but, slipping from his place, followed along the alley he had seen her take.

He who remained, unconscious of his friend's departure, continued to mutter about the chances of the game, and speculate on the amount he would dare to hazard. “She is against us every time, Roland!” said he, in a low, half-whispering voice. “Fortune will not smile, woo her how we may! Speak, amigo mio, shall we risk all?” As he spoke, he began counting the piles of glittering gold before him, but his hand trembled, and the pieces clung to his moist fingers, so that he was too late for the deal.

“Sixteen hundred,” muttered he to himself. “Ten—twenty—thirty.”

“The bank loses!” cried the croupier, announcing the game.

“Loses!” screamed the young man, in an accent whose piercing agony startled the whole board,—“loses! because it was the only time I had no wager. See, Roland, see how true it is; there is a curse upon us.” He seized the arm of the person at his side, and clinched it with a convulsive energy as he spoke.

“Saperlote! my young friend; you 'll never change luck by tearing my old uniform,” growled out a rugged-looking German skipper, who, commanding a small privateer, affected the rank and style of a naval officer.

“Oh, is it you, Hans?” said the youth, carelessly; “I thought it had been one of our own fellows. Only think the bank should lose, because I made no stake; see now, watch this. Halt!” cried he to the dealer, in a voice that at once arrested his hand. “You give one no time, sir, to decide upon his game,” said he, with a savage irascibility, which continued bad luck had carried to the highest pitch. “Players who risk their two or three crowns may not object; but, if a man desires to make a heavy stake; it is but common courtesy to wait a moment. A thousand doubloons, the red queen—fifteen hundred,” added he, quickly,—“fifteen, and thirty-five—or eight.” So saying, he pushed with both hands the great heap of gold pieces into the middle of the table; and then, with eyes bloodshot and glaring, he watched each card that fell from the banker's fingers. When the first row of cards were dealt, all was in his favor, and, as the banker took up the second pack, a long-suppressed sigh broke from the gambler's bosom. It seemed, at length, as if fortune had grown weary of persecuting him.

“Come, Enrique,” said a handsomely dressed and fine-looking man, who stood opposite to him, “luck has turned at last; there is nothing but the queen of spades against you!”

As if by some magic spell he had called the card, the words were not out when it dropped upon the table. A cry of mingled amazement and horror burst from the players, whose natures would seem to recognize some superstitious influence in such marked casualties. As for Enrique, he stood perfectly still and silent; a horrible smile, the ghastly evidence of an hysterical effort, sat upon his rigid features, and at length two or three heavy drops of blood trickled from his nostril and fell upon his shirt.

“Where's Roland?” said he, in a faint whisper, to a young man behind him.

“I saw him with MaritaÑa, walking towards the three fountains.”

Enrique's pallid cheek grew scarlet, and, rudely pushing his way through the crowd, he disappeared from view.

“There goes a man in a good humor to board a prize,” said one of the bystanders, coolly, and the play proceeded without a moment's interruption.

With his broad-leaved hat drawn down upon his brows, and his head sunk upon his bosom, he traversed the winding walks with the step of one who knew their every turning; at last he reached a lonely and unfrequented part of the garden, where the path, leading for some distance along the margin of a small lake, suddenly turned off towards a flower terrace, the midst of which “the three fountains” stood.

Instead of taking the shortest way to the spot, Enrique left the walk and entered a grove of trees, through whose thick shade be proceeded silently and cautiously. The air was calm and motionless, and none save one who had received the education of a prairie hunter could have followed that track so noiselessly. By degrees the wood became open, and his progress more circumspect, when he suddenly halted.

Directly in front of him, not twenty paces from where he stood, was the terrace, over which, in the stilly night air, the fountain threw a light spray-like shower, rustling, as it fell upon the leaves, with a murmuring sound. Lower down, was a little basin surrounded by a border of white marble, and beside this two figures were now standing, whom, by the clear starlight, he could easily recognize to be Roland and MaritaÑa.

The former, with folded arms, and head bent down as if in thought, leaned against a tree, while MaritaÑa stood beside the fountain, moving her foot to and fro in the clear water, and, as though entirely engrossed by her childish pastime, never bestowed a look upon her companion. At last she ceased suddenly, and turning abruptly round, so as to stand full in front of him, said, “Well, senhor, am I to hope our pleasant interview is ended, or am I still to hear more of your complaints,—those gentle remonstrances which sound, to my ears at least, more wearisome than words of downright anger?”

“You have not heard me patiently,” said the youth, advancing towards her, while the slightly shaken tones of his voice contrasted strangely with the assured and haughty accents in which he spoke.

“Patiently!” echoed she, with a scornful laugh. “And where was this same goodly gift to be learned? Among the pleasant company we have quitted, senhor? whose friendships of a night are celebrated by a brawl on the morrow! From the most exemplary crew of the 'Esmeralda,' and, in particular, the worthy lieutenant, Don Roland da Castel, who, if report speaks truly, husbands the virtue so rigidly that he cannot spare the smallest portion to expend upon his friends?”

“If my thrift had extended to other matters,” said the youth, bitterly, “mayhap I should not have to listen to language like this?”

“What say you, sir?” cried the girl, passionately, as she stamped upon the ground with a gesture of violent anger. “Do you affect to say that it matters to me whether you stood there as loaded with gold as on the morning you brought back that Mexican prize, and played the hero with such martial modesty; or as poor—as poor—as bad luck at cards can make you? If I loved you, I 'd have as little care for one event as the other!”

“You certainly thought more favorably of me then than now, MaritaÑa!” said Roland, diffidently.

“I know not why you say so!”

“At least you accepted my hand in betrothal—”

“Stay!” cried she, impetuously. “Did I not tell you then, before the assembled witnesses—before my father—what a mockery this same ceremony was; that its whole aim and object was to take advantage of that disgraceful law that can make an unmarried girl a widow, to inherit the fortune of one she never would have accepted as her husband. Speak, sir!—and say, did I not tell you this, and more too, that such a bridal ceremony brought little fortune to the bridegroom; for that already I had been thrice a widowed bride? Nay, more, you heard me swear as solemnly, that while I regarded the act as one of deep profanation, I felt in nowise bound by it. It is idle, then, to speak of our betrothal!”

“It is true, MaritaÑa, you said all this; although, perhaps, you had not now remembered it, had not some other succeeded to that place in your regard—”

“There, there!” cried she, stopping him impatiently. “I will not listen again to the bead-roll of your jealousies. People must have loved very little, or too much, to endure that kind of torture. Besides, why tell me of these things? You are, they say, a most accomplished hunter, and can answer me,—if, when in chase of an antelope, a jaguar joins the sport, you do not turn upon him at once, the worthier and nobler enemy, and thus, as it were, protect what had been your prey.”

The youth seemed stung to the quick by this pitiless sarcasm; and, although he made no reply, his hands, convulsively clutched, bespoke the torrent of agitation within him. “You are right, MaritaÑa!” said be, after a pause. “It is idle to talk of our betrothal,—I release you.”

“Release me!” said she, laughing contemptuously; “this is a task I always perform for myself, senhor, and by the shortest method, as thus.” As she spoke, she struggled to tear from her finger a ring which resisted all her efforts. At last, by a violent wrench, she succeeded, and holding it up for a second, till the large diamond glittered like a star, she threw it into the still fountain at her feet “There, amigo mio, I release you,—never was freedom more willingly accorded!”

“Never was there a slave more weary of his servitude!” said the youth, bitterly. “If Don Pedro Rica but tear his accursed bond, I should feel myself my own again.”

“He will scarce refuse you, sir, if the rumor be correct that says you have lost eleven thousand doubloons at play. The wealthy conqueror stands on very different ground from the ruined gambler. Go to him at once! Ask back the paper! Tell him you have neither a heart nor a fortune to bestow upon his daughter! That, as a gambler, fettered by the lust for play, you have lost all soul for those hazardous enterprises that win a girl's love and a father's consent.”

She waited for a moment, that he might reply; and then, impatient, perhaps, at his silence, added, “I did not think, senhor, you esteemed yourself so rich a prize! Be of good cheer, however! They who are less cognizant of your deserts will be more eager to secure them.”

With these slighting words she turned away. Roland advanced as if to follow her, but with a contemptuous gesture of the hand she waved him back, and he stood like one spell-bound, gazing after her, till she disappeared in the dark distance.